“Well, anyway,” Komatsu said, “the Professor may look like just another innocent old guy, but in fact he’s quite inscrutable.”

“How much does Fuka-Eri know about the plan?”

“She doesn’t know—and she doesn’t need to know—anything about the behind-the-scenes stuff. She trusts Professor Ebisuno and she likes you. That’s why I’m asking you for more help.”

Tengo shifted the phone from one hand to the other. He felt a need to trace the progress of the current situation. “By the way, Professor Ebisuno is not a scholar anymore, is he? He left the university, and he’s not writing books or anything.”

“True, he’s cut all ties with academia. He was an outstanding scholar, but he doesn’t seem to miss the academic world. But then, he never did want much to do with authority or the organization. He was always something of a maverick.”

“What sort of work is he doing now?”

“I think he’s a stockbroker,” Komatsu said. “Or, if that sounds too old-fashioned, he’s an investment consultant. He manages money for people, and while he moves it around for them, he makes his own profit on the side. He stays holed up on the mountaintop, issuing suggestions to buy or sell. His instinct for it is frighteningly good. He also excels at analyzing data and has put together his own system. It was just a hobby for him at first, but it became his main profession. So that’s the story. He’s pretty famous in those circles. One thing’s for sure: he’s not hurting for money.”

“I don’t see any connection between cultural anthropology and stock trading,” Tengo said.

“In general, there is no connection, but there is for him.”

“And he’s a hard one to read.”

“Exactly.”

Tengo pressed his fingertips against his temples. Then, resigning himself to his fate, he said, “I’ll meet Fuka-Eri at the usual café in Shinjuku at six o’clock the day after tomorrow, and we’ll prepare for the press conference. That’s what you want me to do, right?”

“That’s the plan,” Komatsu said. “You know, Tengo, don’t think too hard about this stuff for the time being. Just go with the flow. Things like this don’t happen all that often in one lifetime. This is the magnificent world of a picaresque novel. Just brace yourself and enjoy the smell of evil. We’re shooting the rapids. And when we go over the falls, let’s do it together in grand style!”

Tengo met Fuka-Eri at the Shinjuku café in the evening two days later. She wore a slim pair of jeans and a thin summer sweater that clearly revealed the outline of her breasts. Her hair hung down long and straight, and her skin had a fresh glow. The male customers kept glancing in her direction. Tengo could feel their gazes. Fuka-Eri herself, though, seemed totally unaware of them. When this girl was announced as the winner of a literary magazine’s new writers’ prize, it would almost certainly cause a commotion.

Fuka-Eri had already received word that she had won the prize, but she seemed neither pleased nor excited by it. She didn’t care one way or the other. It was a summerlike day, but she ordered hot cocoa and clutched the cup in both hands, savoring every drop. No one had told her about the upcoming press conference, but when Tengo explained, she had no reaction.

“You do know what a press conference is, don’t you?”

“Press conference …” Fuka-Eri repeated the words.

“You sit up on the podium and answer questions from a bunch of newspaper and magazine reporters. They’ll take your picture. There might even be TV cameras. The whole country will see reports on the questions and answers. It’s very unusual for a seventeen-year-old girl to win a literary magazine’s new writers’ award. It’ll be big news. They’ll make a big deal of the fact that the committee’s decision was unanimous. That almost never happens.”

“Questions and answers,” Fuka-Eri asked.

“They ask the questions, you give the answers.”

“What kind of questions.”

“All kinds of questions. About the work, about you, about your private life, your hobbies, your plans for the future. It might be a good idea to prepare answers now for those kinds of questions.”

“Why.”

“It’s safer that way. So you aren’t at a loss for answers and don’t say anything that might invite misunderstanding. It wouldn’t hurt to get ready for it now. Kind of like a rehearsal.”

Fuka-Eri drank her cocoa in silence. Then she looked at Tengo with eyes that said, “I’m really not interested in doing such a thing, but if you think it’s necessary …” Her eyes could be more eloquent—or at least speak more full sentences—than her words. But she could hardly conduct a press conference with her eyes.

Tengo took a piece of paper from his briefcase and unfolded it on the table. It contained a list of questions that were likely to come up at the press conference. Tengo had put a lot of time and thought into compiling it the night before.

“I’ll ask a question, and you answer me as if I’m a newspaper reporter, okay?”

Fuka-Eri nodded.

“Have you written lots of stories before?”

“Lots,” Fuka-Eri replied.

“When did you start writing?”

“A long time ago.”

“That’s fine,” Tengo said. “Short answers are good. No need to add anything extra. Like, the fact that Azami did the writing for you. Okay?”

Fuka-Eri nodded.

“You shouldn’t say anything about that. It’s just our little secret, yours and mine.”

“I won’t say anything about that,” Fuka-Eri said.

“Did you think you’d win when you submitted your work for the new writers’ prize?”

She smiled but said nothing.

“So you don’t want to answer that?”

“No.”

“That’s fine. Just keep quiet and smile when you don’t want to answer. They’re stupid questions, anyway.”

Fuka-Eri nodded again.

“Where did you get the story line for Air Chrysalis?”

“From the blind goat.”

“Good answer. What are your friends at school saying about your winning the prize?”

“I don’t go to school.”

“Why don’t you go to school?”

No answer.

“Do you plan to keep writing fiction?”

Silence again.

Tengo drank the last of his coffee and returned the cup to the saucer. From the speakers recessed in the café’s ceiling, a string performance of soundtrack music from The Sound of Music played at low volume.

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens …

“Are my answers bad,” Fuka-Eri asked.

“Not at all,” Tengo said. “Not at all. They’re fine.”

“Good,” Fuka-Eri said.

Tengo meant it. Even though she could not speak more than a sentence at a time and some punctuation marks were missing, her answers were, in a sense, perfect. The best thing was her instant response to every question. Also good was the way she looked directly into the eyes of the questioner without blinking. This proved that her answers were honest and their shortness was not meant as a put-down. Another bonus was that no one was likely to be able to grasp her precise meaning. That was the main thing that Tengo was hoping for—that she should give an impression of sincerity even as she mystified her listeners.

“Your favorite novel is …?”

“The Tale of the Heike.”

Tengo was astounded. To think that a thirteenth-century samurai war chronicle should be her favorite “novel”! What a great answer!

“What do you like about The Tale of the Heike?”

“Everything.”

“How about another favorite?”

“Tales of Times Now Past.”

“But that’s even older! Don’t you read any new literature?”

Fuka-Eri gave it a moment of thought before saying, “ ‘Sansho the Bailiff.’ ”

Wonderful! Ogai Mori must have written that one around 1915. This was what she thought of as “new literature.”

“Do you have any hobbies?”

“Listening to music.”

“What kind of music?”

“I like Bach.”

“Anything in particular?”